


Just a Job

by Fairleigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: Consentacles, Cuttlefish-like Alien Species, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-02 21:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: After a failed assassination attempt, Playboy Prince Cuddy has an additional, er, "job" for his personal bodyguard.





	Just a Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [borevidal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/borevidal/gifts).



It’s just a job, yeah? Not some higher calling. Not some sacred vocation. Nope, nothing like that, thank you kindly. Real life isn’t some stupid storybook fairytale, and I’m not some valiant knight in shining armor.

Try being me for a day. Go on; I dare you. Because it sure as hell ain’t easy being a thirty-seven year old human of the male persuasion on twenty-third century Planet Earth whose current career prospects are more a function of the girth of his biceps than the weight of his educational credentials.

Which, by the way, include three _—_ count them, _three! —_ post-baccalaureate professional certifications. I’m not your average low-IQ meathead, I’ll have you know, although sometimes I wish I were. Being stupid might make the catastrophic stupidity all around me more tolerable.

At least I’ve got a good salary. I’ve even got a fixed-benefits pension plan! And since it’s not like the Average Joe is jumping at the opportunity to be the infamous Playboy Prince Cuddy’s personal bodyguard, I’ve got good job security too. I’ve been in the same position for over two years now …

… in more ways than one. I’ll get to that later.

You want to laugh; I know you do. I can see it in your face, plain as the nose dead smack in the middle of it. That’s absolutely fine. Feel free. Yeah, go right ahead. Everybody else does — with or without my advance permission.

I mean, let’s be real. As spacefaring sentient alien species go, the Sephs aren’t all that bad. They didn’t come to rape, pillage, conquer, or exterminate. Instead, they helped us develop carbon sequestration technology that reversed runaway global warming and saved our sorry mammalian asses — making room for a few of them to settle on Earth was only the polite thing to do! And as a species, they’re smart, inquisitive, and sociable.

They’re also incredibly fun-loving. I suppose you’ve heard the stories?

Ah. Well, okay, you’ve heard it here first: They’re all true. Each and every single damn one of those stories. Even the clickbait. Even the grocery store tabloid cover features. If your wildest imaginings can conceive of it, Prince Cuddy has done it. Twice. Possibly more than twice. Trust me on that. I’m his personal bodyguard, so I get the proverbial front-row seat.

The stuff they do is always consensual, though, no matter what the xenophobes might say or how it might look in the photographs you’ve seen. Seph hearts are as soft and as easy to break as the rest of their bodies; they’d _never_ seek to bring emotional — let alone physical — harm to a human. Well. Not _intentionally_ , anyway.

Unintentionally? Well, he officially drives me positively bonkers on a regular basis. And there have been a few jealous jilted lovers during the period of my employment. Okay, okay, I meant more than a few, but mostly it was crying and hysterics seasoned with some light stalking. The problem had never risen to the level of actual violence!

Not until that fateful night at The Strobe, that is.

It’s a common misconception that, because Sephs use chromatophores on the surface of their skins in order to communicate, and not human-style vocal cords, that they’ve no interest in music. This couldn’t be further from the truth. As a matter of fact, Sephs perceive sound tactilely, through minute changes in ambient air pressure created by sound waves, so their hearing is more acute than ours! They’re especially enamored of music coupled with abstract visual displays like lightshows. So, really, it should come as no surprise that Prince Cuddy loves patronizing nightclubs like The Strobe.

The dance floor is an excellent venue for interspecies orgies as well. The Strobe really ought to change its name to Prince Cuddy’s Paradise or something. He’s keeping them in business singlehandedly these days. Well, not single _handedly_. With a single tentacle. Single prehensile arm. Oh, whatever. You know what I mean.

In any case, a Seph in its breeding phase gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, “sex drive.” Prince Cuddy is fortunate that folks literally queue up for their turn with him. Although he typically takes five or six partners at a time, I always expect to be at The Strobe for a minimum of ten hours.

Yeah, yeah, I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who would pay to watch the show, but I’m not one of them. Once you’ve literally seen it all, lemme tell ya, seeing it all again and again and _again_ ceases to hold much appeal. The Playboy Prince’s playboy ways just make me feel … tired. Yeah, “tired” is the word. Really. I mean it! I do. I’d rather watch the insides of my eyelids, but alas, that’s not an option when you’re his personal bodyguard.

Understandably, though, exhaustion had begun to set in by our ninth hour at The Strobe that fateful night, and the sheer number of people moving in and out of my security perimeter meant that I missed that one vibropick cleverly disguised as a hairpiece. That was a categorical my bad — I was wallowing in self-pitying, selfish resentment and wondering why I continue to put up with this shit, instead of paying attention to my surroundings as I should have been doing — so I have no good excuse. A direct hit from that would’ve shattered Prince Cuddy’s floatbone and effectively paralyzed him for life.

I intercepted the attacker just in time, throwing myself on top of Prince Cuddy to protect him, and got a vibropick bruise bigger than a softball for my trouble.

I had to pretend not to notice how Prince Cuddy seized and shuddered beneath me, the weight of my body triggering yet another orgasm, as his chromatophores flashed my name over and over and over. I _am_ a security services professional, after all.

The attacker was apprehended and arrested by the proper authorities, of course, and confessed readily enough to being an assassin for hire. She’d been hired by one of the aforementioned jealous jilted lovers, that much was crystal clear, but she didn’t know his? her? _its?_ identity, and Prince Cuddy had had sixteen-thousand, six-hundred, and eight sexual partners since arriving on Earth nine years ago.

That he could remember. God help us. Oh, and. Fuck. Me.

Needless to say, figuring out which one was the would-be killer was going to take a while.

So, in the meantime, I made an executive decision in my capacity as Prince Cuddy’s personal bodyguard: Prince Cuddy was to be confined to his Manhattan penthouse. No visitors allowed. All essential business and personal communication would be conducted remotely via Seph-secured satellite.

This was done for his own protection, naturally, but as you might expect, Playboy Prince Cuddy wasn’t thanking me for it. Quite the contrary, in fact. He was still in the peak of his breeding phase after the previous evening’s exertions, so this externally imposed abstinence was agony. I’ve been told that this is experienced, if you can believe it, as physical pain. Whatever the sensation, though, it was a wholly new, wholly unpleasant experience for him, and he saw fit to remind me of his suffering at least four times every five minutes.

 _Torture. Torture. Tooooortuuuuure!!_ flashed Prince Cuddy’s chromatophores.

And all the while he was complaining, he was also pacing. Or, rather, drifting back and forth in the air about a meter above the ground, fins rippling like a flamenco dancer’s long, lacy skirt. His eight arms and two tentacles twitched and twisted in agitation.

“Yeah? Well,” I growled low in my throat. I’d had it up to here with the pacing and the constant whining. “Don’t blame me! Blame yourself! It’s your own fault! If you had more self-control, if you hadn’t insisted on boning everything that moves, maybe you wouldn’t have made so many enemies!”

 _Dooooo sooooomething!_ he wailed. He was too wrapped up in his own misery; I didn’t think he was listening to me.

“Yeah?!” I snapped, temper flaring. “It’s not my fault! I’m just doing my job! The job you hired me for!! What else would you have me do?!?!”

Prince Cuddy froze in mid-air. He even stopped signaling his distress. For a moment, he looked like a perfectly formed, floating Seph sculpture. Despite my fury, I found myself appreciating his beauty …

And then he was on me, knocking me backwards. My ass hit the marble floor with a dull _thwap_. I gasped; his arms were already worming their clever way into my pants.

 _Extenuating circumstances. You’ll do_ , he said shortly. His captivating cursive-w-shaped eyes were focused and intent. He may have been going mad with sexual need mere seconds ago, but I had no doubt that, fundamentally, he knew exactly what he was doing. This was what he wanted … and what he wanted was me.

He was fully in control of himself … and me.

At that point, I may have involuntarily emitted an unmanly shriek. I am the Playboy Prince’s personal bodyguard; I’d seen him do this to other people more times than I can remember, but he’d never, _ever_ touched _me_ like this before. And I hadn’t ever wanted him to. Really, I didn’t. Jealousy has never been a part of this job. Swear to God.

But, upon further consideration, I realized that he was right. These were extenuating circumstances. I told myself that this was what he needed and that I’d just have to make do. We both would, actually.

Together, we removed my clothing so that there would be nothing between Prince Cuddy’s flesh and mine. He wrapped his eight arms around me, and the suction cups on the undersides, spongey soft and slick, yet powerful enough to tear human skin off muscle, were infinitely gentle now, stroking, exploring, _tasting_ everywhere they could reach. Cradling me. Massaging my sides, my hips, my spine. Teasing my nipples into hard points. Circling the aperture of my navel.

Curling around the length of my cock. I whimpered as the delicate tip of that arm probed underneath my foreskin, stretching it, teasing the glans and the urethral opening. I was rock hard in an instant and leaking precome. He stroked me sweetly, up and down, up and down, up and down; my hips jerked to his rhythm.

Meanwhile, two other Seph arms slid between my thighs, spreading my legs and exposing my perineum and, below that, my anus. I whimpered again; I knew exactly what was coming.

Knowing isn’t the same as actually _experiencing_ , though. Prince Cuddy was considerate — he was popping my anal cherry, after all! — but he was long and thick, and he stretched me almost beyond what I could take. Almost. The initial pleasure of penetration was breathlessly intense, and combined with the friction of the rhythm he set, and the stroking of my cock, which never stopped, I tensed, gasping. Close, already very close … and then the arm inside me jabbed my prostate gland. That was enough to throw me over the precipice and make me come.

The muscular contractions of my orgasm triggered Prince Cuddy’s. He quivered and flashed with the colors of a tropical sunset — my name in the Seph language — as his packet of sperm shook itself free.

That exquisite sensation of fullness in my bowels triggered a second orgasm, sharp and straining, and I doubled over at the waist, crying out, chest against Prince Cuddy’s back, my arms wrapped tightly around his ovoid body, my fingers curling, caressing.

We remained wrapped around each other for quite a while after that first fuck, half-conscious, and marinating in the afterglow. I may have been kissing him by that point; I don’t quite remember.

But of course, soon enough he wanted to go again. And again. And again. _And again_. And I had no choice but to oblige him.

I kept right on obliging him, in fact, for the next five weeks. And we didn’t stop after the cops apprehended the man who wanted Prince Cuddy dead. (He’d been motivated by jealousy, so no surprises there. I guess if I’m honest with myself, I can kind of sort of understand his feelings.)

In any case, Prince Cuddy isn’t in his breeding phase anymore, but that hasn’t stopped us either. He no longer feels compelled to patronize nightclubs like The Strobe, but we still fuck once a day. At minimum.

So.

Yeah.

It’s just a job, as you know, but my on-the-job satisfaction has reached an all-time career high. As a matter of fact, you could say that I’m totally married to my work.


End file.
